Domestic Violence

Tonight, at 7:00pm, the YWCA is holding their annual read around with Women Writing for (a) Change. Every year, the YWCA has an art exhibit, and then a readaround with stories based on the topic of the art exhibit. This year's topic is Domestic Violence.

I participated last year when the topic was Wise Women, read the piece about my grandmother's hat, got my picture taken, the same picture that graces the profile of this very blog. This year, I'm reading the piece I posted titled, "Anonymity". I like this piece, I read it well, I think it packs a powerful message.

It pales in comparison with the other pieces being read...or performed, I should say. At the rehearsal, we were all in tears...and when we weren't wiping our eyes, we were sitting in stunned silence. The writings this year are so very powerful.

Come if you can, if you are interested in hearing statistics that will stun you, if you are interested in hearing moving stories, of vicariously experiencing the bravery, the heroism, the humanness that permeates the performances of my fellow readers/writers. It will be time well spent.

Wish me luck.

Memory

Last night, I auditioned for the May Festival Chorus, the premier choral group in Cincinnati. My best friend sings in the choir, and because they had lost a number of singers over the past year, the director had instructed each choir member to bring in one person to audition. I was Jennifer’s person.

I have a pleasant voice, but it is untrained, and I don’t read music. However, I love to perform, never miss an opportunity to show off. I called for an audition time. Jennifer and I giggled in teenage conspiracy as we waited for the phone to be answered. After noting the time in both of our palm pilots, we scheduled a time to select an audition piece for me. I initially thought “The Blue Green Hills of Earth”, a beautiful Unitarian Hymn. After hearing me sing…essentially for the first time in nine months, if you don’t count the alcohol induced Karaoke I did on my cruise, her face paled. Where were the lilting notes, the light and breezy e’s and f’s that she remembered from choir? No, no, this hymn would not do, I needed an easier piece.

The May Festival director had mentioned that he liked show tunes. Maybe a show tune would work. We perused her books. A piece from Cinderella? Phantom of the Opera? Cats? I had always liked “Memory”, and it did a nice job of showing off my range, I could act it out, “Memory” it was.

In the mean time, the decision had been made to move my mother from the rehab center to a nursing home. I wanted to bring her home, but she simply wasn’t ready. She still required round the clock care, couldn’t do bathroom duties by herself, couldn’t transfer herself without assistance from at least two people. I simply wasn’t equipped for her. I started the process of emptying her apartment and moving her stuff into a storage unit.

Midnight
Not a sound from the pavement
has the moon lost her memory?
She is smiling alone
In the lamplight
The withered leaves collect at my feet
and the wind begins to blow

My mother never threw anything away. She had stacks of plastic tv dinner trays, bushels of plastic grocery bags, an entire drawer full of plastic lids from yogurt cartons or butter dishes or long since gone Tupperware containers. She bought stuff from United States Purchasing Exchange, and they sent her “gifts” of porcelain birds perched on branches, faux silver-plate candy dishes, cheesy necklaces with matching earrings, “crystal” vases and bowls. My mother saved every one of them. She had boxes of them.

I don’t think my mother has discarded a single item of clothing that she has purchased in the last twenty years. She had accordion files for the last ten years carefully documenting the receipt for every check she wrote. All these receipts were categorized, each file stored chronologically. She’d have made a good accountant.

My mother saved every letter, every card she ever received. I found a stack of Mother’s Day cards from the past twenty years…most of them from me. My siblings somehow never get their act together to send her a card, but they usually remember to call. Mother’s Day cards were always difficult for me. I wanted to convey my love for her, my appreciation, but not be untruthful. I never admired my mother, never, ever wanted to emulate her. I wanted to be strong, not weak. I wanted to be assertive, not passive aggressive. I wanted to be respected, not just liked.

Everyone likes my mother. She is so very likeable, cheerful almost always, doesn’t ever complain when her kids neglect her, myself included. She always has something pleasant to say, a happy memory to impart. My problem with her is that she didn’t protect me, she took my father back after all four of us girls confessed that he had been raping us and I’ve spent the bulk of my adult life trying to forgive her for that.

I found a box of pictures. Can anyone who is emptying their parent’s apartment, not stop to look at a box of pictures of themselves when they were young? I found a picture of an oh so handsome Rexford smiling his love at me, cradling an infant Kevin in one arm, his other arm encircling a seven year old Scott. I remembered that picture. I remembered my life on that very day, that ordinary day of my life as I knew it then.

Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember
The time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again

Did I mention that I saw "Cats" on my honeymoon?

My brother came to help me move my mother’s stuff. We made trip after trip, carried box after box, ending the day a sweaty mess, with still the kitchen pantry and her closet left for me to tackle the next day. I locked her apartment up, feeling overwhelmed and not a little sad. I visited her last night at the nursing home. Her room is tiny. There was barely room for a chair next to my mother’s bed. She shares it with a diminutive and frail 97 year old woman who was lying in her bed, her covers neat and tidy, her hands crossed peacefully over her chest, looking very much like she was simply waiting for something. It reminded me of the souls sitting on the chairs in the cemetery of the play “Our Town”. I cried the whole way home.

Every street lamp
seems to beat
a fatalistic warning
Someone mutters
And the street lamp gutters
and soon it will be morning

There was good news this week, though. Sort of. Three men winked at me on Match.Com…three men that I thought had serious promise. All three were articulate, had interesting hobbies, were liberal….a liberal man is hard to find in Cincinnati. They winked at me, I winked back, they emailed me, I emailed back, they called me, we chatted on the phone…once…and then it all stopped. All three of them. I’m heartsick over it. I’m usually very good on the telephone.

Daylight,
I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I mustn't give in
When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin

I have date #41 tomorrow night, a guy I’ve been talking to for a month and a half. He lives a little ways north of me, he’s tall, he sings and plays the guitar. In May, a friend of mine told me her psychic powers were telling me that date #41 was going to be “the one”. After my last date, which was three weeks ago, I’ve had three #41 dates scheduled and all three cancelled. This has piqued my curiosity somewhat. I don’t put a lot of store into psychic phenomenon, but I was curious as to what #41 would be like, and when #41 kept getting postponed, my pique peaked.

Burnt out ends of smoky days
The stale cold smell of morning
The streetlamp dies,
another night is over
Another day is dawning

I had lunch with a client yesterday. He told me that Rexford bought a building in downtown Cincinnati. He bought it a couple months ago. It seems impossible that he is now so removed from my life that a major event, such as buying a building, goes unreported. The momentous events in my life, which have involved the kids, the dog, my mother, I have dutifully kept him in the loop, but I guess something of this magnitude and of a relatively impersonal nature would not require that an ex spouse be informed. Especially an ex spouse who has custody of your children and to whom he pays absolutely no child support, except health insurance.

Touch me, it's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You'll understand what happiness is
Look, a new day has begun

I’m telling you, I didn’t just sing that song, I lived that song. I looked furtively around me during the dark parts, like I thought a cat would do. I belted that last verse out, like I was really asking someone to touch me, to see me, to remember me as I once was.

After the last note faded, the director asked me what key my piece was in. I looked at him blankly. Then he asked me to sight read a Haydn piece. I quickly noted that I don’t sight read. He cocked his head and said, “But Ms. Waite, how will you learn the music if you can't read it?”

I quickly replied, “I have a great memory, I remember music really well, especially, and I do know…um…you know…Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge.” I smiled hopefully at him.

He sighed. “Do you even want to try to sight read the Haydn?”

“Of course!”

“Can you sing in German?”

Another blank look.

"Can you sing in any foreign language?"

I looked nervously down at the floor.

“Fine, just use la la la, the universal language of music.”

“Oh,” I quipped, “Just like love is a universal language.”

It was his turn to look blankly at me. He cleared his throat.

I tried to sing it. Really I did. He stopped me after the first measure.

“Ok, try that one again.”

I did it again. I’m sure the notes were wrong, but for the first time that evening, the tone was perfect! Sweet, lilting, clear…I knew that voice! I could name that voice in four notes!

I didn’t make it into the May Festival Chorus, at least, Jennifer said she didn’t think I did. I haven’t gotten the official word yet, the director said I should hear within the next week. She talked to him last night, though, after my audition and after her rehearsal. He shook his head sadly, noting that they really needed singers who could sight read music. “I tell you, though,” he said smiling at her, “I’ve never seen anyone sing so confidently at an audition.”

Confidence. Maybe that’s my problem. I’ve got too much of it.

Sex in the City

As a single woman in Cincinnati, over forty and overstretched, both financially and psychologically, going to New York was mostly fantasy, partly terrifying and entirely extraordinary. I watched Sex in the City religiously. I admired Carrie Bradshaw’s clothes and shoes. I lusted after Samantha’s affinity with men, I yearned for Charlotte’s classy good taste and I empathized with Miranda’s conflict between parenting and career.

Being not much of a drinker, and being too shy to venture unaccompanied into a bar or other place of pickup, most of my dating experiences in the new millennium, post 17 year marriage, have been limited to the three single men in my church and the men I have met online. I have dated a muscle bound chemist who just wanted sex, a millionaire executive who just wanted sex, a syndicated columnist who just wanted sex and a photographer who just wanted to suck my toes….naked, of course.

I had been pretty discouraged by the whole dating scene in Cincinnati. I was pleased and flattered when the only passenger on the shuttle from the airport to the hotel was reasonably good looking, friendly, funny, within my age range and assertive enough to ask for my cell phone number before I disembarked at my hotel. New York was looking better with each passing moment! This kind of stuff never happens to me in Cincinnati! We didn’t actually hookup but he called twice and I called once, but the timing didn’t work for us to actually go out.

As luck would have it, my ex husband’s ex boyfriend, a neurologist who had recently relocated to Alaska was in the Big Apple the same weekend attending a psychiatric conference with his buddy from med school…..his tall, young, handsome, psychiatrist, STRAIGHT buddy. I was overjoyed when Eric appeared at the Neterlander Theatre where we had made plans to meet to see “Rent” accompanied by a 6’2”, muscled, redheaded, soft spoken and intelligent escort. This was my lucky night! I never looked so good in my long, clingy, royal blue gown, accessorized by two very handsome men.

We laughed and cried at the play, gorged ourselves at a Greek restaurant, entertained the patrons at a comedy bar (much to the annoyance of the hired comedians) and enjoyed a leisurely stroll through the Village at 2:00am on Sunday morning. Indulging myself with Cosmopolitans and Appletini’s, I was giddy by the time Gary slid over and put his hand on my leg. A few meaningful glances later and we were holding hands and leaning against each other. Eric caught on and excused himself, feigning fatigue, and Gary offered to accompany me on the long taxi ride back to my hotel. What’s a woman to do?

We kissed and hugged and tugged at each other’s clothes. I contemplated my three date rule, thinking I could call the play a first date, dinner a second date, and the comedy club a third date. The things a horny woman will do to rationalize her behavior. In the midst of my contemplation he turned to me and asked, “So what do you like that’s kinky?”

“Define kinky” I replied warily, my libido taking a nosedive (and not the good kind) in the silence that followed.

“Well, I like to be spanked and told what a naughty, bad boy I am.” He says excitedly.

“You mean like, You bad boy, you didn’t take out the garbage!”

“Yes! And I’m never going to either!!” he says defiantly and looks at me expectantly.

I search my mind. I don’t remember this episode from Sex in the City. I remember girls on top having intense orgasms. I remember limbs contorted in many and varied positions, all accompanied by intense orgasms. I don’t remember squalling men pretending to be boys in need of discipline. What’s wrong with this picture?? I have three sons at home and I don’t even spank them! And this guy is a psychiatrist!

I wanted to quiz him about his mother.

Spanking was not in the picture, and unfortunately, neither was sex. Apparently for my mental health specialist, the two went hand in hand…so to speak.

I flew home the next day, delighted to sleep in my own bed, albeit alone, ecstatic to see my boys, none of whom asked to be spanked. I mused about my weekend, on the one hand acknowledging the thrill of being desirable to two strangers, while reinforcing my three date rule, although I doubt if the spanking business would have surfaced in any context outside of the bedroom. I have resigned myself to more months of research, still hopeful that the bright elusive butterfly of love will find its way to my bushes.

Marriage Proposal

It rained yesterday, leaving everything green, fresh and clean. My yard looks spectacular, but nothing like it will look in a week or so when the chrysanthemums open. I drove home from dropping the boys off at school and it almost took my breath away. Its fall, officially today, and my garden is whooping a last hurrah before the frosts of October steal their thunder.

The green is hopeful, I like to think. I wear a lot of green, to match my eyes, so I say, but also I think, to reflect my positive outlook. I am hopeful. I am hopeful that my oldest son will find his way, will do his homework, will make good decisions. I am hopeful that my middle son will change his mind about college. I am hopeful that my youngest son’s front tooth will eventually find its way down to its proper place without another surgery. I am hopeful that my new dog will figure out how to walk on my kitchen floor so that he can find his water and his food unassisted.

He’s a wonderful dog. Two years old, 60 pounds, buff colored, Labrador retriever, Kevin convinced me it was time when he mentioned that dogs from New Orleans were arriving at the pound and couldn’t we do our part to help the survivors of Katrina. As it turned out, those dogs were only going to be available for foster homes, and Kevin wanted a dog for keeps. Yes, he’s totally housebroken, has a bladder of steel, has absolutely no malice towards my cats, doesn’t bark, sleeps with my youngest son, is affectionate and playful, has a perpetually wagging tail and likes to ride in the car. Unfortunately, non carpeted surfaces seem to scare him. He wants to stay on carpet. His food and water are accessible only on my kitchen floor. The door to go potty is on a non carpeted floor. We have been accommodating him by shuffling throw rugs in succession so that he can gingerly pick his way across without touching the tile. I know that he will eventually get used to his new home, but right now, five days into it, this extra effort is getting old and I’m considering going cold turkey and seeing how hungry he gets. Perhaps he just needs a little incentive to tap dance across the tile.

That eternal optimism has been wavering as of late in my love life. I have been taking a bit of a break from romance, although the playing field thunders for my return. Five men on Match.com winked at me yesterday…and two the day before. Usually I get one or two a week. Five in one day confused me. It made me wonder, did someone write on the Match.com bathroom wall, “For a good time, call xxx-xxxx”? Is there a Match.com locker room that I don’t know anything about? That’s the bad girl kind of thinking that I need to just get over. I’m sure that it was simply my turn to show up as match of the week for the men that matched my criteria. I’m sure there are hundreds of us, and it was simply my turn.

The dating game gets a little tiresome. I get tired of the attention. I get tired of the spans of time with little to no attention. I get tired of the hopefulness of opening my email. I get tired of the anticipation of meeting someone new, of the disappointment, of the continued search. I know what I want. I’m just tired of looking for it.

I visited my good friend last week. I hadn’t seen him for a long time, since before my retreat, my vacation, my mother’s hospitalization. I was missing him big time. I needed a buddy fix. We went to lunch, shopped around a bit, puttered a little in his garden, and sat on his bed to listen to the new Dar Williams cd. Almost every time I see my friend, he proposes to me. He proposed to me on our first date. I giggled. I usually giggle when he proposes. I sat there on his bed, thinking about my unfulfilling love life, turned to him, and said, “Maybe we should just get married.”

He giggled.

I think I shocked him.

We discussed it for a little while. He’s in a relationship now, but it’s a rocky one. I wondered, after I said it, if I was serious. I was joking when I said it, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. My friend possesses every quality I'm looking for in a mate.

And the more I thought about it, the more it made me sad.

Was I giving up the hope of heart-stopping, mind boggling, romantic love? My friend and I both admit that we love each other, but not in the typically romantic way. We both admit a curiosity about each other sexually, which we have never succumbed to satisfying. We are in such similar situations with our children and our ex spouses. We share so many common interests and passions. We are such good friends.

Could that be enough?

I am so very tired. Sometimes, I think it could be.

Perhaps its time to bring out the brown, accept that its fall, and look forward to some warmth when the winter chill sets in.

I’ll keep you posted.

New Man in My Life

I have a new man in my life. I’m so excited. Its been a long time. Oh, and this one is so sweet, so handsome. And he already adores me, I can tell. I have looked long and hard for just the right one, but without much luck…until Saturday afternoon. I knew he was “the one” the minute I laid eyes on him. Kevin was with me, and he knew it, too. In fact, Kevin spotted him before I did, jumping up and down and flapping his hands in excitement.

“What about this one, Mom?!”

I shushed him, looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Kevin obviously had not read “The Rules”. He was not being coy, at all.

I held out my hand, and my new love kissed it, which endeared me to him immediately. I looked into his sweet tawny eyes and was hooked. Kevin pranced around.

“Whaddya think, Mom. Huh, Mom? Can he come home with us?”

My cheeks flamed in embarrassment.

“Kevin! We hardly know this young man! That’s no way to talk. What will he think of us.” I whispered dramatically into his ear.

I cleared my throat and suggested that the three of us take a walk outside and get acquainted. My new beau seemed to like the idea, but when the time came to walk through the crowds, he balked. He didn’t seem to want to venture out of his corner.

“Awww. He’s shy.” I thought lovingly to myself.

He was really shy. We had to drag him outside, with the help of the manager, of course. Once we got outside, he really seemed to open up, running around, checking out all the new scents, coming over to give Kevin and I quick kisses. I thought that was really nice. But, then when it was time to go back, he balked again. He didn’t want to back the same way he came.

“Hmmm.” I thought to myself. “He’s not shy. He’s stubborn!”

Whoa, boy, I already had one really stubborn male in my house. Did I really want another? I marched over to him, said in a very stern voice, “Its time to go back inside.” And grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Whatddya know, but that actually worked. Sometimes, you just have to show them who’s boss.

I wanted to just date for awhile, but Kevin insisted that we take him right home. I finally acquiesced, especially when the new guy laid his head on my lap, right there in front of everybody.

He seemed to really like my car, which was a good thing, and when we got home, waltzed right through the house like he owned it. He ran right up to my other sons, introduced himself, checked out the other rooms, said hello to my cats, and made himself right at home….in Kevin’s bed! I was a little taken aback by that, but…well…you can’t have everything.

When night time came, he was very insistent that he wanted to stay with Kevin. We walked outside for a little while, just the two of us, and I asked him what he thought. He wagged his tail, licked my hand and scratched at the door to get back in. I guess that was my answer.

I still haven’t quite figured out what his name is yet….

Fun, Adventure and Excitement

On the subject of dating....

Yesterday, I got an icebreaker from a guy on yahoo, and I wrote a short little reply indicating some interest. Last night, I got this email:

Hello Betty,

Thanks for the note on Yahoo personals. I hope to find out more about you. So......Send me some pictures to this email if you can and some information on what you like to do for fun, adventure and excitement!

Best Regards,
Mike

And, so this morning I replied to him...

Dear Mike,

Oh my, you will certainly have your hands full with me. I live life way out there on the edge. Here are the things I do for excitement:

1. Teach my teenage boys how to drive-better than any roller coaster at Kings Island, this activity will keep you on the edge of your seat, make sure that all the mechanisms that keep us potty trained are completely in place, get your heart racing faster than the highest setting on an eliptical machine and give more of an appreciation for steady land than the longest cruise.

2. Making payroll for my 7 employees every other Friday-this is one of the greatest mystery's of life, a page turner better than any John Grisham novel, packed with proof of super natural powers more believable than Stephen King. Life living on the edge just doesn't get any better than this. Oh the adrenaline rush when the final deposit is made...sometimes just as the bank closes on Thursday.

3. Getting my 17 year old boy to school on time-oh, this one is fun, full theatrics, some of the best acting in the world, truly Oscar worthy, as he tries to explain why he is sick and can't go to school, why he should be able to at least miss first period French, the yelling and screaming and (oh this is the best part) summations about how I am a bad mom because all the other seniors get to sleep in. All of this drama is followed by a high speed chase scene where we test the limits of my modest Mazda Protege with the traffic lights and tire traction as we break all speed limits and race through red lights to screech in front of the school giving him a whopping two minutes to spare to actually get to class.

I'm sure all of this is making your head spin, but add to that the gourmet cooking, the lavish gardening, the avid reading and the fact that I wrote a romance novel this past summer, and boy, I bet you can hardly believe that someone like me exists. :-)

Betty

And I wonder why I can't seem to find a guy to go out with ten times. Is it really any wonder?

Anyway, I'll keep you posted. hahahahaha.

Bad Girl

I was chatting online with a guy the other day. I do that. I chat online with guys. Does that make me a bad girl? I talk to men I’ve never met, sometimes I reveal deep, dark secrets, you know, the things you tell the person sitting next to you on an intercontinental plane trip, the person you will never see again. I do that. Does that make me a bad girl?

I’ve been wrestling with this concept for awhile. Because of my childhood sexual abuse, despite years of therapy, copious pages filled with insights and foresights and rewrites, sometimes I struggle with the idea that maybe…I’m a bad girl.

The guy online said some inappropriate things to me…things I thought were inappropriate to say to someone that one was seeking a romantic attachment to, but had not yet met. I assumed he was seeking a romantic attachment…we have been chatting for several weeks now. Maybe he wasn’t seeking an emotional attachment. Maybe he was just seeking a thrill…or sex. Which would make him a bad boy.

Or does it?

I went out with a guy a couple times. He seemed to like me, I certainly liked him and after kissing him in the parking garage for what seemed like an excruciatingly wonderfully long time, I suggested that perhaps we could find a place to continue kissing that might be a bit more private. I was only interested in continuing the kissing. Seriously. He was a good kisser. He declined, which was fine. I smiled and drove home.

I didn’t hear from him for a couple weeks. I saw him online and in a moment of Brazen Betty, asked if he wanted to get together again. He declined…he told me that he likes to become friends with women before he has sex with them.

Jeez oh pete, where the hell did that come from?

My cheeks flamed, there in front of that computer screen. I stuttered to myself. “OHMIGOD!!! He thinks I’m a bad girl!” My worst nightmare come true. Those little voices started dancing around, ring around the rosy style, chanting "Betty's a bad girl. Betty's a bad girl." I spend a great deal of time quieting those little voices inside of me, and here, a guy that I liked was saying it out loud.

So I asked myself, am I a bad girl? Do I do shameful things? Do I have kinky fetishes, expose my children to inappropriate behavior, have any of the desires or fantasies played out in pornographic movies?

I have no desire to be with other women. I have no longings for multiple sex partners. I have no compelling passion for furry, four legged creatures. Leather amuses me much more than it excites me. I might engage in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em in the bedroom, if the handcuff’s weren’t too tight, if it was with a guy I trusted and he made the request. Its not on my personal list of fantasies.

The fact of the matter is that I’m pretty conventional when it comes to sex. I just want one partner. One guy partner. I think I could be a willing participant in a multi event filled week of bedroom gymnastics, but could be content with once or twice a week, as long as there was a lot of hugging and kissing in between.

No, I’m not a bad girl. I’m a nice girl.

So shut up, you nasty voice inside my head.

And for those guys out there that think the way to a woman’s heart is through your penis, think again. Keep those thoughts to yourself. Us nice girls want sex just like anyone else, but we want respect, too. We want to be treated respectfully, and then all you gotta do is ask for the rest of that stuff. But not before we even meet. Not before we even have a first date. If we aren’t worth the effort to get to the bottom of the ten date list, then just keep those thoughts to yourself.

I’m going to start using that ignore button a whole lot more often.

Betty has spoken.

From Inside Betty’s Head.

Letting Go...Being Gone

I fell asleep before “Weeds” came on Monday night, so last night, I watched it by myself. My middle son, Greg, has decided that he likes that show. I’m not so gung ho about him watching it, but…let it not be said that Betty is hypocritical. If watching the show is unlikely to make me addicted to pot, its unlikely to make my son addicted. It is a funny show, which some interesting moral dilemmas, so…I’ll let him watch. Besides, it shows all the dangers of involvement with illegal substances, so maybe there will be some residual benefits as well.

I watched the show. I laughed outright. It felt good. The premise is a recently widowed Mom who resorts to selling pot to keep her kids in their relatively affluent suburban setting. During this episode, her increasing bewilderment with her situation is evident and she enters that stage of grief when she begins to seriously miss her husband. At the end, with Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah in the background (Mickey, you gotta watch this show), the mom watched a video of herself and her husband in bed. It was not graphic at all, but they were obviously making love, and the widow watches…and remembers…tears streaming down her face.

I watched and remembered, too, tears streaming down my face.

On a lighter note, my mother is doing well. They got her up in a wheelchair yesterday and let her tool around the halls of the rehab facility. When she told me this…right after an attractive male nurse had just left, I asked her, “So, Mom, when you were popping wheelies out in the hall, did you run into any cute guys?”

She got this confused look on her face. “Cute guys? Where would I find any cute guys?!”

Is it really possible that I sprang from this woman’s loins?

Reflections on a Hot September Weekend

Sipping my coffee on Monday morning, I perused my weekend like a Sunday morning newspaper, starting with the headlines, remembering fine print details, tapping my foot at the entertainment section, nodding in agreement at the home improvement page, furrowed brow at the advice column, chuckling at the comics. It was a good weekend for growth, to be sure, and for nurturing myself.

Carrie Newcomer’s Friday night concert would have to be the headline, she is the composer and singer of my theme song, Betty’s Diner. She has a new CD out called Regulars and Refugees, the songs of which are based on people she met at Betty’s Diner. As it turns out, and I didn’t know this when I picked Betty’s Diner for my theme song, it is a real restaurant in southern Indiana. I’m from Indiana…north central Indiana, but Indiana nonetheless. I was a waitress at a restaurant called Mom’s Place my senior year of high school. I poured my share of coffee, listened to my share of stories, watched in anticipation the stories unfold in my little corner of the world. I lived vicariously through some of the patrons, the ones with sophistication and money, with handsome husbands and adorable children, with (be still my heart) double wide trailers….

Carrie crooned and told stories. My foot tapped, I clasped my hands together in gleeful anticipation as she started singing my favorites, my lips moving to the words. I swayed my body in the chair with some of her jazzy numbers, oblivious to the censorious looks of my date. Of course it was a first date. I was excited about this guy, because not only did he know who Carrie Newcomer was, but he had been to a concert of hers before. Unfortunately, I was only attracted to his perfect smile, not to his judgmental eyes, nor his pithy commentary of others in attendance, nor his sarcastic concern about the bird droppings on the roof of my car. On the upside, I am pretty sure the chemistry test failed for both of us, so no hard feelings.

Saturday, I took care of those bird droppings and washed my car. I love a freshly washed car, like admiring the shine from a distance, the clean smell when you open the door. I took all three boys to visit my mother. Remind me not to do that again. Between their bodily noises concert and their taking turns tapping each other, it was just too much…for me and my mother. Do boys ever grow up? The seventeen year old was just as obnoxious as the ten year old. From now on, its one at a time.

I went for a long walk with a good friend, one I enjoy spending time with but get to see far too little. We were once the best of friends. I’d like to recultivate that garden of my life. When I got home, I made pesto. My oldest son loves pesto. I use my own basil and parsley, and try to keep the other ingredients on hand. I always make a large batch and freeze it in packages just large enough for one pound of pasta. We have had pesto and pasta three nights in a row, at Scott’s insistence.

While I was cutting out the stems of the basil, I watched the new Showtime series, “Weed” about a suburban mom who is suddenly widowed and struggles financially as a result. She turns to dealing pot to supplement her income so that her kids can stay in their very nice home. It has interesting sub themes and is quite educational about the varying uses of pot. I learned that just because I never smell pot smoke in my house does NOT rule out its possible use by my teens. And…it was funny. I needed the laugh. Its been a long time since I spent a Saturday night at home. I was mostly by myself, too. All three of my sons had other plans. It felt good.

I meant to go to church Sunday morning, but I overslept…woke up at 10:00. I took my coffee out to my fish pond and watched the dance of the bumblebees around my newly budded and blooming chrysanthemums. In a week, the sanctuary will be even more spectacular than it is. I planted dozens of plants last fall, and they have spread far and wide. I trimmed them all back once this summer, but I should have done it again before they budded up. They are huge. Tiny little four inch pots last year are now exuberantly spreading their arms. The ground around my fish pond is so very fertile…everything grows like there’s no tomorrow….

I pulled weeds and watered the rest of the day, in between sorting, washing, drying and putting away every stitch of clothing in my house. I mean it. Everything that wasn’t already neatly folded into drawers was taken care of. I felt such a sense of accomplishment.

In the midst of my laundry madness, I answered the telephone. A soft, sweet, very young, very feminine voice asked if she could speak to Kevin. I called for him and he took the call in my room. After saying “hello”, his brow furrowed and he said, “No.”

He paused while she talked, then he said, “Because I barely even know who you are.” Then he hung up. I looked at him questioningly and he said, “That was Olivia. She asked me if I’d be her boyfriend. When I said no, she wanted to know why. Mom, I don’t even know an Olivia.” He shook his head in dismay.

“Perhaps it’s the Olivia that is the granddaughter of the Bierman’s across the street. She’s just a few weeks younger than you.”

Kevin frowned, then shrugged, and said, “Doesn’t matter, Mom. I still don’t know her.”

A few minutes later, he came back in my room, closing the door behind him, a speculative look on his face.

“Mom, there’s a girl out there talking with Greg, she says her name is Olivia!”

I went out to the family room. Sure enough, Greg and two of his friends were sitting on the couch along with a really pretty teenage girl, long brown hair, big eyes, wide smile, visible bumps beneath her shirt. I high fived my surrogate son, Phillip and waved to Joe across the coffee table. I nudged the girl.

“Hi, I’m Greg’s mom, Betty.”

She smiled and said, “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Olivia.”

I smiled benignly. “How old are you, Olivia?”

She cocked her head questioningly and said, “Fourteen.” Then she let out a little laugh and said, “I’m with Joe.”, answering my unasked question.

I nodded my head, left with a parting smile, and headed back into my room. Kevin was prancing in excitement. I gave him a hug.

“Sweetie, she sure is pretty, but she’s Joe’s girlfriend. I don’t think she is the Olivia that just called you. I’m pretty sure that Olivia is ten, just like you are.”

His excitement faded. He looked into my eyes and gave a little laugh. “Yeah, I thought so, too, but still, when she said her name was Olivia…”

My ten year old is much too young to be concerned about romance, but I chuckled at the drama that day because even my ten year old has to learn the hard way. It don’t come easy. You know, it don’t come easy.

One of the toughest fears I have faced in this whole divorce process is my fear of being alone. I didn't see a therapist right away after Rexford left, in fact, I postponed therapy until a year after my divorce. You see, I considered myself the Straight Spouse poster child, forgiving almost immediately, moving on to a new love almost immediately, focusing on my kids, having THE MOST amicable divorce in history complete with a transition ceremony celebrating our new roles as co-parents and best friends.

I discovered, once I started therapy, that I had never gone for more than a month without being in love with someone. From the time I was sixteen, I had always had a love interest, someone upon whom to focus my attention and affection. After my third relationship, post divorce, crumbled, I thought I would try to be by myself for awhile.

I have been only moderately successful with that, but I'm still trying. The fear of being alone is a strong fear. I wonder why that is. That was certainly my first thought after Jeff came out, that I would be alone for the rest of my life. I still catch myself with that slightly panicky feeling if I go for too long without a date, or some attention from a guy, but I don't worry so much anymore about being alone. I have found that I enjoy my own company. I am not fearful of it like I once was.

My sister was visiting me a couple weeks ago and we discussed this very subject. She turned to me and said, "But Betty, you are the wittiest, sweetest, kindest person I know. I love being with you. Why would you not enjoy being with a witty, sweet, kind person?"

She makes a good point.

Here's to all of us witty, sweet, kind people. And here's to the hope that we can all learn to enjoy our own company.

Which is exactly what I did this weekend.

Surprise Endings

“Hey, Lady. What chu wan today?” Sam, the owner of ST Nails, smiles warmly at me, looking curiously at the scratchings I’ve made on his sign in sheet.

“A pedicure and a fill in. I’m feeling extravagant today, so I’m going for the pedicure, too.”

He nods, smiles big, waves me back to the huge porcelain chairs waiting in the wings. I slip off my sandals and roll up the legs of my slacks. He busies around, running water, adding blue crystals, gathering up utensils. I choose a nail polish and he nods his approval. I pick up a magazine and plunge my willing feet into the warm bath. I lean back, sigh in sympathy with the workers of the world, and push the button for the back massage. Closing my eyes, I will away the worries, the nagging doubts, the insecurities, and wallow in the pure pleasure at my feet.

Sam works his magic. He trims the cuticles, scrapes away the calluses, inspects every aspect of my toes. He doesn’t talk, I don’t listen. I go somewhere else. I go to a sandy beach with a warm breeze, salty air fills my lungs and I smile. Sam begins the highlight of the pedicure, the foot and leg massage. I peek my eyes open for a moment, just long enough to see him shake the bottle of pink lotion. I lean back again in relaxed anticipation. I had shaved my legs for just this, this ultimate measure of pampering.

Sam starts with the calf of my right leg, kneading the firm muscles, smoothing the pink lotion over the tops of my toes. He massages the shin, pushing the pulpy part of the calf back and forth in a gentle rhythm. I feel the tension exit stage left. This feels so good. He moves to my feet, thumbs arching across my instep. He rubs his knuckles right in the middle of the arch of my foot and I feel something curious shoot up my leg. Something wonderful. I don’t dare open my eyes. Sam again pushes his thumbs in a circular motion across the ball of my foot, down the instep, around and around and around on my heel, up again across the arch.

And it happens. I feel it happening. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it. I look around wildly to see if anyone is watching. The other women are chatting with their manicurists or flipping magazines in bored detachment. Another wave hits me and I gasp for breath. I try to calm myself. I pick up the magazine and pretend interest. I sneak a peek at Sam who is still focused on my feet. I relax back into my seat.

He starts on my left leg. I will the wonderful feelings back. With each stroke of his hand, the beautiful tension builds. He pushes his hands up my shin, strokes down the back side of my calf, smoothing the lotion over my feet. Deftly, he massages each toe, does the knuckle thing up and down my foot, and it starts again. My heart beat races. My toes tingle. I ride the wave of pleasure in desperate incognito. No one can know.

My toes a pleasant shade of dark pink, my manicurist waiting to perform her magic on my nails, I smile and thank Sam, my face a mask of maturity. His next customer steps into the pool of silky blue water, picks up a magazine and smiles benignly at Sam. I sneak furtive looks at her while polish is applied to my nails, while Sam massages her feet. She reads the magazine in distracted boredom, checks her watch, takes a call from her cell phone, chatting all the while Sam is massaging her feet.

I wonder to myself. Am I a freak? Did what happen really happen? Does it happen to other women? Have I just been celibate for wayyyy too long?

I leave Sam twice the tip I normally would. I have been back four times since. Now, that tip is normal for me. I watch the other women in the pedicure chairs and I wonder….

Deported

Its been hard to write, as of late. My plate seems overflowing. The kids are off to school, although I forgot to check Kevin’s backpack last night. High School open house was last night and who shows up? My ex husband. He doesn’t have time to take the boys to dinner or spend anytime with them at all, but he shows up for the open house. I’m still scratching my head. Middle school open house is tonight, God help us all.

My mother called me last night at 9:45. She was sitting on the bedpan and just wanted someone to talk to. I was so tired. I was exhausted from trying to keep this house in order, from engaging a lawyer for my son’s upcoming court date, from my first writing class of the semester, from the open house and I had been to visit her three hours earlier. I just didn’t have time for her. I just didn’t.

Now I feel guilty.

Of course, I had time to talk to the cute guy who called me. I mean, we all have our priorities.

Tuesday was a hard day. I was too tired to write about it yesterday, so you get the watered down, 48 hours later version.

Greg is my social butterfly. He has lots of friends, always has had. He’s easy going and likeable, charming and handsome. In the third grade, a boy from Bulgaria moved in half a block up the hill from our house. Greg befriended him, of course, and became a regular at our house. His parents were quite strict, so his visits were rarely overnight, and seldom stretched over the dinner hour, but I often found him sprawled on the couch watching a movie with my son’s pack of friends.

Mikail was the nicest kid. He was a year older than Greg, and got his license last year. He was ALWAYS polite and respectful, not just to me, but to his friends, too. I was shocked, I tell you, drop over and fall to the floor shocked when I discovered, through an accidental glance at the computer screen while gathering up archeological artifacts out of Greg’s room, that Mikail used the “f” word in conversing with his friends. Not only that, but I saw the “mf” word, the “d” word, the “s” word. I almost dropped the dishes.

Not Mikail. Not sweet, polite, good natured Mikail. I fanned myself back to my senses.

Greg laughed at me. Guffawed, actually. Oh, he so enjoyed my discomfiture. Mikail had been knocked from his pedestal and Greg reveled in it.

I never mentioned it to Mikail. I decided to keep it my little secret. When he grew taller than me, I still looked up to him, despite knowing that he was flawed in the same way that the rest of my son’s friends were flawed…he was human, and needed to fit in.

Sometimes, when you really get to know your sons’ friends, its hard not to compare. Mikail got good grades, studied hard, listened to his parents, never argued with them about when he needed to be home. When Scott turned his nose up at the summer job I found for him at a distribution warehouse down the street, Mikail took me aside and asked for the guy’s business card. Without involving his parents, he went to the interview, got the job, and proudly informed me that he had saved $1,000 over the summer. I couldn’t have been prouder had it been my own son.

Imagine my dismay when Greg informed me that he was choosing not to attend the church’s youth campout over Labor Day weekend because Mikail and his mother were being deported the following Tuesday, and he wanted to spend his last weekend with his friend.

I cried when I heard that news. Demanded details. Apparently, when his father applied for his green card, he had thought it would apply to Mikail and his mother as well. It didn’t. The period had passed to renew their visa’s and the government told them to get out. Mikail’s father would stay here. Mikail and his mother had to leave. Should they receive permission to come back, they would all be moving to Cleveland.

Mikail was at my house all weekend. So were twenty other teenagers. Teary eyed at times, laughing, braiding each other’s hair, watching movies, listening to music, playing the guitar, my son and his friends did what they do best. They bonded…with each other, with Mikail, knowing that the bonds they formed now were going to have to last a long time.

Tuesday, Greg and three of his friends received permission to miss school to take Mikail to the airport. On the way there, we listened to Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends”. Mikail’s song, the boys said.

We got to the airport and stood around while Mikail and his mother got their boarding passes and checked their luggage. I gave Mikail a pen light from my accounting firm, told him that a light would always shine for him at 1752 Oak Avenue. I hugged him and let the tears roll down my face. His mother saw me and pressed her face into her husband’s chest, then turned around and grabbed me and hugged me, too. There is something that bonds mothers together, even when they don’t know each other well, when both of them love the same child.

One of the friends at the airport was a girl. A girlfriend? She certainly acted like one, sobbing audibly both to and from the airport, clinging tightly to Mikail when it was time to say goodbye. Greg insists that they were just friends.

Connie and I sniffled our way back to the parking lot after taking our leave. The boys followed stoically behind. I turned to them as we boarded the escalator and said, “This is why women live seven years longer than men. We can cry when we are sad. You men seem to think you can’t.”

I listened to their muffled tears the whole way home.

It made me proud.

Funny thing about saying goodbye to people you know in your heart you are unlikely to ever see again. They are still out there. Their life force stays with you, but the daily connection, the sharing of meals, the light hearted teasing, the jostling over which movie to choose, that dies. It is a death, of sorts, and is mourned as such.

I was reminded of my college professor, who I loved in that unique, student/mentor passion that is never repeated. Completely platonic, we traded thoughts and perspectives with razor sharp precision. He taught me so much, believed in me at a time when I could not do that for myself. I gave him back a glimpse of youth. I can see him so clearly, even now, twenty four years later. I see his beard, the shaking of his head when I missed the mark, his thumb and his forefinger on his chin as he listened to my words, and the way his eyes lit up when I finally got it. I can hear the hesitant cadence of his words, which he chose carefully, and the hearty laughter when I made a typically pithy reply. I said goodbye to him on my graduation day. His contract had been for four years, the same four years I attended, and he was moving back to California. He promised that we would meet again. He promised.

We never did. He died a few years later.

And so, with tears again running down my face, I say goodbye to my son’s friend, a boy, almost a man, who came into my life when he was eye level to my chest, and who leaves a full head and shoulders taller than me. I know that he will be fine, know that he has a kind heart and a clear head, but I have been part of the village that raised this child, and my heart weeps, nonetheless.

A Day in the Life

Its Labor Day, and I feel like doing nothing, something I’ve gotten really good at lately. Where’s my energy, my drive, my ambition? I sip my coffee by my fish pond and note the weeds that need to be pulled, the pond that needs to be cleaned. I am reminded by the sagging roof of my shed that I need to call the insurance adjuster again, but there I sit, contemplating the universe and my love life.

Or lack there of.

A man told me he loved me this week. I almost can’t remember the last time a man said those words to me. Who am I kidding, I can remember the color of the tiny print on the floor tiles the last time I heard those words. The last I heard those words, I returned my suitor’s affections. Two and a half years ago. This time, I was at a loss for words. Not a good thing, when someone declares themselves to you.

The last time I SAID those words was just before Christmas, and my lover was at a loss for words. I know how it feels. Tit for tat, it tisn’t. Seems to me that the universe has a sense of humor in affairs of the heart. When I last said those words, I shook my head sadly, wondering out loud what the universe could be thinking, setting a man before me who matched what I wanted so well, but not giving him the same feeling. This week, the man said the same thing.

The universe giggled, I’m sure. I struggled to find the humor.

I have had a busy social calendar of late. Every once in awhile, I will go through a burst of first dates. One right after another. Now, I enjoy first dates. I worry that they will think my butt is too big, but other than that, I enjoy the dance, the furtive looks, the smiling, the laughing, the careful conversation, the sharing of first date secrets. I enjoy dressing up, flirting, smiling sweetly. But…everytime I get ready for another first date, I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was getting ready for a tenth date. First dates are fun, but tenth dates are real.

My flowers are nodding an acknowledgement that September is here and frost is not far behind. I’ve stopped watering at the first sign of wilt because…oh I don’t know, perhaps because I know I can’t save them. My optimism seems to be wavering as of late. With Copper dying and my mom losing her leg…and much of what little will she had, my remorse certainly seems natural…but so unfamiliar.

I visited my mom’s apartment yesterday. I need to start packing her up. She will never live there again. We will pay September’s rent, but we’ve given notice that she won’t be back. Tomorrow, I will talk to the social worker about where she will go for rehab. After that, its anyone’s guess. Maybe back to my house, if she can learn to transfer herself. I visit her everyday at the hospital. She is in relatively good spirits, considering that the only way she can get out of bed is by being lifted way up in the air by a hydraulic lift reminiscent of carnival rides when I was twelve.

We chat about New Orleans, the fate of her two remaining sisters, my siblings, her pain. Sometimes I bring a book and sit and read while she snoozes. I think she just likes having someone there for a few minutes. I actually enjoy the bit of quiet time, myself.

Off to get something done, now. I promised Mom I’d bring the boys, and the two oldest ones are still sleeping. Ah, the wonder of youth.

Then again, maybe I’ll take a nap.

New Orleans: The Last Tourist

August 18, 2005

“Mom, I’m tired, can we go back to the hotel now?”

My ten year old looked wearily up at me, his hair damp with sweat and southern humidity. We had walked to Bourbon Street from our hotel by the convention center. On the way, we had traversed through the River Walk to buy a gameboy game for which he had saved his vacation money, foregoing the Cozumel souvenirs of Mayan ruins and sun gods. The store clerk had been unable to process my credit card because of a machine malfunction and had assured us that his equipment would be up and running upon our return. My ten year old was much more interested in Pokemon Green Leaf than he was the beignets at Café Du Monde, which was where I was headed.

I spotted a trolley trundling past.

“How about a trolley ride, Kevin? I bet its air conditioned and then we can see the city and rest at the same time.”

My smile coaxed his concurrence, and I fished from my pockets a dollar and a quarter for each of us. We boarded the trolley, found a seat, and looked around.

The trolley was about three quarters full, with working class folks on their way to work. People of all different colors boarded the trolley, rode for a while, then went off on their way. I watched them chat amongst themselves, greet each other hello, wave goodbye. A homeless man bummed a quarter off someone, hopped on the trolley, sat down and looked around. His clothes were dirty, his face unshaven, his smile toothless. Someone offered him a sandwich, which he accepted gratefully, wolfing it down as we watched. Another person offered him a dollar and I got the impression that these were regulars on the trolley’s traffic line. They knew him, maybe knew his story, and they trusted him.

Out the window, the Garden District passed us by. Tropical plants waving in humid humor. Flowers abounding off porches. Tree roots straining through the sidewalk. Old mansions sat in historic humility, some of them tended and pampered, a few of them crippled with neglect. Wrought iron railings graced the edges of the lawns, changing textures and curlicues with each homeowner.

The Garden District gave way to less gentile surroundings and the mansions turned swiftly into storefronts bearing offers of used books and psychic readings. The conductor announced the end of the line and I dug in my pockets for more change.

Because the trolley required exact change and I was a quarter short, Kevin and I ventured into the tiny store just across the street. I bought us each an orange soda and surveyed the purveyor’s wares. The store was called The Herb Import Co., and indeed, there were herbs for any ailment known to man…or woman for that matter. Artfully arranged and immaculately clean, the bottles bearing medicinal remedies called for my attention.

I take no prescription medication, don’t even wear glasses, and only need over-the-counter cures for an occasional, hormonally enhanced headache. I was nonetheless impressed with the array of potions, not to mention the orange soda. The voodoo section intrigued me and I have to admit, I fought the temptation to toy with Mother Nature. I spotted a love potion, guaranteed to resolve the ultimate mystery of the universe and make the one you love restless with desire for only you. Sigh. If only….

The store also carried an impressive line of liberal minded bumper stickers. It was a hard choice and I wish I could remember more of the others. One was “What Would Jesus Bomb” and “Against abortion? Then don’t have one.” as well as “Keep your laws off my body.” There were lots of others, but I chose “Better a Bleeding Heart Than None at All.” It rests on my bumper as we speak.

After we bought our soda’s, we swiftly consumed them as they would not let us back on the trolley with open bottles. We swayed in our seats back to Bourbon Street, and wound our way back to our hotel…via the game shop, of course.

We had dinner that night at Mulate’s Cajun Restaurant. A Zydeco band beat a steady rhythm and dancers pranced around the stage. All were happy to entertain and be entertained. I tipped my waiter well.

It is now two weeks later, post Katrina. Those establishments were right by the convention center which is now a veritable war zone. I doubt if the Herb Import Co. is still there, but the website is still functional. It now sports a button marked “Hurricane Katrina Relief”.

I pray for those people I saw in the blink of an eye on that trolley. I pray for their working class families and the businesses they support. I hope that the outcry for assistance is loud enough and strong enough that the leaders in Washington will listen. I turn away from the news of the looters, acknowledging that they are there, but know in my heart that for every looter, there are ten mothers and fathers forfeiting their last bottle of water so that the neighbors’ baby can stop crying for a moment. I know that there are volunteers from Canada and California, New York and Nebraska, racing south to muddy their clothes and bloody their hands to get the survivors what they need. I know that there are communities of people, pulling together to do whatever they can for the common good. I know this in my heart. I refuse to believe that those in need in New Orleans are not worthy of our attention and our action. Sometimes I think the media focuses on the darker side of humanity to try to make us believe that it goes with the color of one’s skin.

How dare they.

I know better.

I was the last tourist.

I saw the people who were eventually stranded there with my own eyes. Those without cars, without the means to escape to richer relatives. I saw the people whose livelihoods come from ensuring that those like me enjoy themselves in their fair city. They are kind and generous people, helpful and concerned about those around them.

Would that we could return that concern to them.

Now.

While we still can.


For more insight on what's happening in New Orleans...that you most likely won't hear on the news, read Kurt's post at Whale Watching From My Cubicle.